


One Morning at 221B

by CumberCurlyGirl



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 69 (Sex Position), First Time, Friends to Lovers, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, My First Fanfic, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-31
Updated: 2018-03-31
Packaged: 2019-04-16 03:20:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14155518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CumberCurlyGirl/pseuds/CumberCurlyGirl
Summary: John acts on his attraction to Sherlock





	One Morning at 221B

**Author's Note:**

> This is my very first attempt at fanfic! 
> 
> Art for this story: https://missevalyn.deviantart.com/art/A-Scandal-in-221B-Baker-Street-350241754

John Watson sipped his tea.

It was a Tuesday morning, and he had nowhere to be. Sherlock, a late riser, was still asleep and John was bored and restless. He checked the website, but no new cases had come in. He walked to the window and gazed out at Baker Street, lost in thought. He was thinking over the last year and half of his life and marvelling over his good fortune. Before that, the military had been John’s whole life, his identity, and after his injury and retirement, he had been lost & depressed. Sometimes he wondered if he would have ended up taking his own life. _Sherlock Holmes saved me_ , thought John with a wry smile, glancing at the clock and wondering when Sherlock would awaken. There was something that he wanted to discuss.

John quit his job at the surgery after the break-up with Sarah. He thought that his relationship with Sarah was going somewhere. She was pretty and smart, and the sex was good, but ultimately, she could not compete with Sherlock. Sherlock, who dominated every conversation and even invited himself to their dates. Sherlock, who demanded to be the centre of John’s attention. He had cared for Sarah, he really did, but she sensed that she was not his priority, and she was right. John came to the realisation over the past several months that he had denied something to himself, something that seemed completely obvious to him now. He wanted Sherlock.

Since moving into 221B Baker Street together, they had become inseparable. The blogger and the detective. A great team. He had initially been attracted to the danger element in their life together but was also thoroughly annoyed by Sherlock’s attitude. Sherlock always assumed that John would worship him and be impressed. What an arrogant dick he could be! The most annoying part of it was that John _was_ impressed by Sherlock. Sherlock, who was always two steps ahead of everybody else, who could see things no one else did, and could make connections at lightning speed. It made John’s head spin sometimes. But for all his intellectual prowess, Sherlock was childlike in some respects and vulnerable.

Sherlock was also strikingly beautiful, and he knew it, at least John thought he did. Otherwise, why would he flaunt his looks by wearing skin-tight clothing on his lithe body or by letting his hair grow long into Byronic black curls that framed his high cheekbones so perfectly? Christ! Why would he wear the long Belstaff coat with the collar turned up, even in warm weather, making him look taller than he was and causing him to stand out in just about every setting? He seemed not to be aware of the effect that he had on both men and women, but John was sceptical.

John had been with men before, experimentally, but had always considered himself a ladies’ man, and indeed had had more than his fair share of girlfriends, the latest being Sarah. But lately, he had come to realise that he was irresistibly drawn to the enigma that was Sherlock Holmes. How he had always bristled when people assumed that they were a couple. He had no issues with homosexuality, he just never thought it had anything to do with him. Somehow, Sherlock never seemed to mind, or even to notice these assumptions that other people made. He never corrected them, preferring to ignore any mention or discussion of sex in any form. Over the past few months, John found himself thinking more and more about Sherlock. He even dreamed of him, sometimes in tangled passionate dreams that left him drenched in sweat, and other times in tender hazy dreams of Sherlock sleeping, curled up in his lap as John stroked his cheek.

He had realised that he loved Sherlock. There was no longer any doubt in his mind, and he had made his peace with this. Was John actually gay? He wasn’t sure, and it didn’t matter. It was an irrelevant question. Gay, straight, whatever. His feelings for Sherlock transcended these labels. Sherlock was singular.

But what about Sherlock, who seemed never to think about sex or love except when deducing the motives of a client or suspect? He spurned or ignored advances of the women they encountered in their adventures, including Molly Hooper who was obviously in love with him. Sherlock treated her cruelly indeed. John did not know if Sherlock had ever had an intimate relationship. Every time he tried to broach the topic, Sherlock shut it down with his typical condescending sarcasm or changed the subject. Was Sherlock a sexual being? John did not know, but he wanted to find out.

Resolve coalesced in him, and he turned from the window and walked down the hall towards Sherlock’s bedroom. John paused outside of the door, drew in a deep breath, quietly opened it and tiptoed in. The night had been warm, and Sherlock had kicked off the covers. He was lying on his back wearing only the bottoms of his black silk pyjamas. The morning sun was shining through the blinds and made golden stripes across his bare chest. “Dear God in heaven” whispered John, running his eyes over Sherlock’s sleeping form. The dark tousled curls; the Cupid’s bow lips, slightly parted; the pale, slender body that John knew was surprisingly strong.

John was content to stand there for several minutes in silent appreciation of his sleeping flatmate. He decided that he would only look for a bit, then leave the room and wait for the right moment to bring up his feelings with Sherlock. But as he stood there, his gaze drifted from Sherlock’s serene face to his white shoulders, nearly hairless chest, and down to where dark wisps of hair below his navel disappeared into the pyjamas. His desire intensified, and he felt the beginnings of an erection. Suddenly, he made a decision. He was going to take a risk. He dropped his dressing gown to the floor and slowly eased himself onto the bed wearing only his boxers. Sherlock shifted and rolled to his side, facing away from John, but did not wake. John’s heart was racing. There was still time to leave undetected _Ha! Undetected by the world’s greatest detective!_  If he stayed, what was Sherlock’s reaction going to be? John could not guess. He stared at the back of Sherlock’s head and his smooth shoulders. He inched his body closer; now they were practically spooning. John could smell him, a lovely musky, uniquely Sherlock smell. John felt his erection twitch. He reached out with his finger and twirled it in Sherlock’s hair. Cautiously, slowly, he raised his hand and rested it gently on Sherlock’s hip, simultaneously pressing his lips against Sherlock’s shoulder blade.

“Good morning, John,” said Sherlock in a drowsy and thoroughly unsurprised voice. John froze and said nothing. Sherlock rolled to his back and propped himself up on his elbows, squinting in the morning sunshine.

“What took you so long?”

“I’m sorry, what?” sputtered John.

“You know, you could have just asked,” said Sherlock, rolling his eyes in an infuriating way. “We’ve lived together for a year and a half, and I think we’ve become pretty good friends, but you sneak into my bed while I’m asleep? Really John, and you call me the drama queen?”

“Sherlock!” John said, exasperated. “Yes, we’ve lived together for a year and a bloody half, but you have never given me one single indication that you have any…. any….feelings for me or anybody else or that you are even bloody human!”

“Of course I’m human, John, of course, I have ‘feelings’ as you have so euphemistically put it. It is basic chemistry, and I’m a chemist, a rather good chemist at that. I know how it works. I have the same chemistry as any man but a superior mind, so I have to prioritise. I choose to ignore that baser part of me. It gets in the way of brainwork. You know that I consider my body merely transport. I…”

“Sherlock, shut up,” John interrupted. “Just tell me. Have you ever been with anyone, anyone at all, maybe back at uni, even as an experiment?”

“No,” said Sherlock, dropping back onto the pillow and looking away, lips tightening.

John took Sherlock’s hand and kissed his palm lightly. Sherlock did not pull away. As he did this, he noticed the track marks on Sherlock’s forearm. He fought the anger rising in him and the urge to comment on this discovery. He said nothing, but instead thought to himself, _you beautiful boy, how I wish I could protect you from yourself, I will protect you_. Still holding Sherlock’s hand, John said gently “OK, I’m asking now, would you like to try…. being with someone… being with me?” Sherlock turned his head back toward John.

“John, until you came into my life, I was alone. When I was a child, I had a dog, Redbeard. He was my only friend. Then I lost him, can’t remember exactly how, but after that I was alone. Mycroft was a rubbish brother, and he never paid me any attention except to insult me. I didn’t have friends at school either. No one liked me; they called me a freak. My fault I suppose, I don’t play well with others, as you know. Since then I’ve chosen to be alone; alone protects me. But it has been my choice.”

“Why were you not surprised a moment ago, Sherlock?”

“Did you think you could hide your thoughts from me of all people, John?”

“But with Molly…”

“Yes, yes I know, I missed that one, or maybe I filtered. You are different. I see you look at me. I observe that you always seem to need something from the bathroom while I’m in the shower. Shall I go on? I admit that at first I just found it curious and amusing, but then I started to find it pleasurable. A pleasure that I never anticipated. Being close to you began to distract me. Damn sentiment. But we can discuss all of this later. What I’m trying to say is that yes –I would like to try…”

John leaned down and kissed Sherlock on the mouth, _surprisingly soft_. Sherlock responded, kissing back awkwardly. Their tongues intertwined, explored. John pulled back and looked deeply into Sherlock’s blue eyes, their faces close together. They kissed again, harder this time, and John ran his fingers through Sherlock’s curls. They embraced, rolled over so that Sherlock was now above John. John was acutely aware of the feel of Sherlock’s bare chest against his own. Sherlock had buried his face in John’s neck and was breathing heavily. John could feel Sherlock’s cock, hardening against his stomach. John pushed the younger man off of him and regained his position on top. He grasped Sherlock’s wrists and pinned them above his head. He planted kisses on Sherlock’s forehead and nose and sucked an earlobe. Then he gave attention to the long neck, biting it gently and then harder while Sherlock whispered, “Oh John,” breathlessly. John released Sherlock’s wrists and moved down Sherlock’s chest, circling a nipple with his tongue and then coming back up to his mouth.

As he did this, he slid his hand down the concave stomach to the top of the pyjama bottoms. He felt Sherlock’s cock under the thin silk, and his hand closed around it. Sherlock inhaled sharply. John stroked Sherlock’s cock through the thin pyjamas as they kissed. John could not believe that this was happening, that Sherlock was allowing this, seemed to want it. He could feel his passion rising, becoming more urgent. Sherlock’s hands were on either side of John’s face; his breathing was shallow, his eyes closed.

John moved and straddled Sherlock’s thighs, looking down at his friend _lover?_.

“Sherlock.”

“John.”

“Are you sure about this Sherlock?”

“Yes.”

Sherlock had a sheen of sweat on his face and chest and had a look in his eyes that John had never seen before. Whatever it was he had buried inside himself for so long was struggling to be free. His eyes were glassy, unfocused, and almost feline. _What am I unleashing_? Thought John. _A panther_?

“Please, John.”

John pressed his body against Sherlock who wiggled beneath him in expectant impatience. Their penises rubbed together, separated by silk and cotton. John stood up and dropped his boxers to the floor then got back onto the bed on all fours over Sherlock, planting a kiss on his lips then travelling down Sherlock’s stomach ( _Sherlock needs to eat more_ , John thought) to the top of the pyjama bottoms. John took a deep breath and pulled them down.

Without hesitation, he took Sherlock’s cock into his mouth, and Sherlock’s hips bucked upwards uncontrollably. John took in Sherlock’s whole length and sucked hard. He cupped Sherlock’s bollocks and ran his tongue around the head of his penis, tasting the pre-ejaculate that leaked out. Sherlock moaned and writhed, his hands on John’s head. John’s finger slid down behind Sherlock’s bollocks to the pucker behind them and pressed against it. Sherlock heaved and gasped. Having not anticipated the events of the morning, John realised that they were not prepared for this avenue and made a mental note to buy lube.

“Oh Sherlock, just you wait my love, next time I’m going to fuck you silly”, he said hoarsely. John disengaged from Sherlock and shifted position so that his hips were above Sherlock’s head. They stroked each other in the sixty-nine position. For an inexperienced lover, Sherlock was surprisingly good, and John wondered if he had done some research _of course he had_. John felt a knot in his stomach as his climax neared. Sherlock came first, and his fingers dug into John’s buttocks. He had to let John’s cock leave his mouth as he cried out in pleasure and his body trembled all over. John felt the hot come hit the back of his throat, and it triggered his own orgasm that splashed across Sherlock’s chest. They clung together for a moment, recovering. Finally, John got up, picked his boxers up from the floor and cleaned Sherlock’s chest with them.

Getting back into bed, he put his arm around Sherlock’s shoulders and drew him close. Sherlock snuggled against him. Neither one spoke. Eventually, Sherlock said, “Mrs Hudson had it right all along.”

John said, “I guess she did. God, if she finds out, she’s never going to let me live this down.”

They both giggled at this.

John took Sherlock’s hand and kissed his fingertips, then raised Sherlock’s arm so that his track marked forearm was visible. “Can we talk about this?” Asked John, serious now.

“Do I have a choice?” Sherlock huffed.

“No,” said John, “you are going to hear me out. I care about you, and I can’t stand it that you poison yourself with that stuff.”

“John, it’s not a problem, it helps me deal with boredom. I’m really fine.”

“You’re not fine; you’re a goddamn junkie!”

“Listen,” said Sherlock, pulling his arm away and rolling on top of John. “What just happened between us was amazing, I can’t even begin to describe it, and that’s saying something if _I’m_ at a loss for words. I want it to continue. If you can make me feel that way, I don’t see how I could ever be bored."

” John considered this, said, “Deal,” and kissed Sherlock lightly.

Sherlock nestled back under John’s arm, threw his leg across him possessively, and closed his eyes.

“John?” said Sherlock sleepily.

“Yes?” said John.

“Don’t blog about this.”

John smiled.

 

 

 

 


End file.
